“Wow! Ouch! Help!” he cried. “That’s strong ammonia! I use it for hay fever. That’s the wrong medicine! Oh! The back of my neck is coming off!”
He held his handkerchief to his face, the tears coming from his eyes because of the strong stuff.
“I remember now!” he managed to gasp. “I left my smelling salts in my stateroom. But I can get them now. I’m better—much better!”
“I believe he is,” remarked Frank, when Mr. Ackerman had gone below. “Say, isn’t he the limit, with his different kind of medicines?”
“You shouldn’t make fun of him,” spoke Bart.
“Whew!” suddenly exclaimed the captain’s voice. “I guess my invalid passenger must have been around here,” and he breathed in the ammonia-laden air.
“He seems to be quite sick,” said Fenn.
“Sick?” repeated the commander. “Say, I wouldn’t want him to hear me, but he’s no more sick than I am. He’s only got a touch of hypochondriacism.”
“Will—will he die soon of it?” asked Fenn.
“Die? I wish I had his chance of living,” went on the captain. “I guess you don’t quite understand. Maybe that word was too much for you. A person who has hypochondriacism has a little stomach trouble, and the rest is only imaginary. That’s what Mr. Ackerman has. Every once in a while he takes a trip with me, for the sake of his health, he says, but I think it’s to get away from working. Say, did he ask you to reach in his pocket for some medicines for him?”